


Ask Not For My Mercy

by fiftysevenacademics (rapiddescent), rapiddescent



Category: Jupiter Ascending (2015), Richard II - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Competition, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Dom/sub, Hair, Jealousy, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Manicures & Pedicures, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, Plague, Rivalry, Sexual Tension, Snark, glittering asshole monarchs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-02-20
Packaged: 2018-03-12 00:58:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3338198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rapiddescent/pseuds/fiftysevenacademics, https://archiveofourown.org/users/rapiddescent/pseuds/rapiddescent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Balem Abrasax visits Earth to determine if a full harvest will be profitable, but ends up in a battle of wits-- and more-- with King Richard II of England, with a long-term outcome that Balem doesn't anticipate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The version of Richard II this is based on is the 2013-14 RSC production. Events take place long before the events depicted in Jupiter Ascending.

It was midmorning when the child asked for a glass of water after her carer administered the stasis injection, and took her last breath before it arrived. He cradled her head in his arms. Her warmth permeated his skin just till it reached the metal and wiring beneath, then gradually, it dissipated, and was gone. He shifted her to his lap and balanced her there for a moment, watching the last trace of rose fade from her brown cheek, and then it hit him: She is the last. He stroked her black curls and felt a drop of water trickle from a duct in the corner of his eye onto her cold forehead when he kissed it. Her parents had died, and years of care had trained his algorithms to respond with sentiments appropriate to her situations, as befit a nannybot, or any sentient being, really, who took responsibility for the fragile, instinctual human race. 

He undressed her like a doll before putting her into the box he had readied next to her bed, so that she could be shipped to the processing facility. He wondered, briefly, if there would be a ceremony or assembly of some sort at the plant to acknowledge the end of an era. And then, as he summoned a servebot to transport the box, it occurred to him that, now that his planet no longer bore human fruit, maybe he, too, would be deactivated.  
**************************  
"Kalique's last human has died," simpers Chicanery Night.

"The whole planet?" Balem Abrasax picks at a thread on the hem of his shirt while he says it, as if the answer can only bore him.

"Yes, my lord Balem. The last bit of essence was extracted hours ago. Kalique has nothing left."

"Titus doesn't, either. This plague has hit them both hard." He turns a vacant eye over the transparent floor, where machines extract a full load of essence from human vessels. Mr. Night flinches slightly as Balem's gaze passes over his ratlike face.

"Yes, Lord Balem, Earth is the only planet that has not been touched by this plague. You would be wise to consider what that might mean for your own fortunes."

Balem rises and spins around to face his advisor, back straight, face blank, except for his eyes, which burn right through Mr. Night's soul, and he cringes, awaiting his master's response.

"As if I have not been considering this for some time!" He shouts through lips thin with restrained emotion. "The essence will be priceless now, of course."

Mr. Night bows and doesn't quite rise again, waiting for his master to continue.

"I will visit Earth to determine if a full harvest would be profitable."

Mr. Night has the impression that Balem is looking at him, but when he raises his head, sees that his master has turned and is summoning him very slightly with three fingers, while lowering himself back onto the hovering divan. 

"Excellent idea, my lord. I will have the ship prepared."  
*********************  
Balem and Mr. Night materialize from their ship near a large stone building with colorful glass windows in a large, smoky city filled wooden buildings and people. Oxen pull carts through a muddy marketplace as Mr. Night holds a pair of devices up for a minute or two, then adjusts some settings, before handing one to Balem and putting the other in his own ear. The sounds crystallize into meaningful units in their ears, and a soft, digital voice informs them, "You are hearing.. English. Translating your speech into.. English."

An enormous stone building in the distance flies colorful flags, one of which bears a white hart with a crown around its neck, and the crown tells Balem that this is where he needs to go. They pick their way through the sloppy street, Mr. Night setting his cloak down so that Balem can step over especially messy parts unstained, until they reach the massive gate.

"Who is your master?" asks Balem to the guard at the gate.

"I serve King Richard II of England, and can let none but friends to the king pass beyond this gate," the man in chain mail armor replies.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The meeting between Balem and Richard gets off to a tense start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously, this fic takes place long before the incident with Balem's throat.

_"HIS WHAT?"_

"My lord.. Richard... that's what he said. _His master_ ," Aumerle makes sure to remain on the other side of the room because the way Richard paces back and forth reminds him of the lions the king keeps at the Tower. 

"Who is this knave? He must be either a madman or a saint!" 

"And now the claws come out," thinks Aumerle as he replies, "He has a foreign name. Unless the guard heard it wrong, it was a language I did not recognize. Balem Abrasax. Perhaps he is kin to A--" he stops himself before he can utter the name that Richard still grieves to hear-- "to the Queen, from some remote part of the Holy Roman Empire?" 

Richard pauses, eyes widening as considers the implications of such an insubordinate link to his beloved Anne, who has been in the grave long enough to be surprised at this possibility, and not long enough that her memory fails to bring him to his knees. Aumerle wonders if he should go to him, but instead, the king falls silent, draws a deep breath, and lifts his head. A sunbeam hits the moving crown, and a small, golden burst illuminates Richard's face as he speaks.

"Either way, I will see this cur, if only to remind him who _his_ master is. If he yields not, I shall have him drawn and quartered for treason."

"Yes, my lord," Aumerle turns to the door.

"Wait! I can't see him like this, Aumerle." 

He makes a sweeping gesture over his blue silk robe embroidered all over with gold thread. It is grander than anything Aumerle has ever owned, grander, even than anything he has seen anyone wear. He is tall and lean. His eyes shine like topaz and, standing against the sun, his hair glows and flows like molten gold around his face and shoulders. 

"He could impress God himself just like that," thinks Aumerle, shaking off the buzz starting through his flesh.

"Bring me my gold robe and help me change before we go."

Aumerle sends for the garment and when he has helped Richard into it, smoothed his hair and replaced the crown upon it, accompanies him to the grand hall where he takes his place on the throne.

Richard arranges the orb and scepter, and calls, in a high, imperious voice, "The King will see the man, Balem Abrasax, now."

Balem is ushered into the chamber not by a nobleman of high rank, but by a common page of the sort that escorts tradesmen and merchants to their assignments in the castle. He does not acknowledge the man, and exudes a disdain so visible that the page walks a pace behind him so he does not have to see it. 

"He may be a foreigner, but he understands what this means." A tiny smile plays on Richard's lips.

He walks across the floor in elegant, measured steps, his back, rigid, and his head held high, giving Richard time to assess the man who calls himself, "master". Balem is tall, though not as tall as he, but just as slender and graceful, with short, chestnut hair combed neatly away from his face. Dark lashes and a softly smudged black pigment fringe his green eyes, and his lips are pursed with the effort of containing his indignation. Something made of a black material that looks wet clings to his lower half as tightly as the hose men wear at Richard's court, and yet is not the same as hose. His tunic is a mesh of sequins, fur and leather, open in a wide V at the neck, and hanging to his hips. Sleek black boots rise up to his knee, and several large rings circle his fingers. 

A small man covered head to toe in a clingy black garment that mostly conceals his face accompanies him. From his subservient posture and furtive glances at the man ahead of him, Richard deduces he is a servant, and the hidden face offends him. He continues walking till he passes a certain point close to the throne, and is restrained by several men. 

"Bow to your king," orders one of the men.

Balem wriggles free of his guards and pushes them away with a strength belied by his gracile arms. Two men with swords rush toward him, but Richard stands and raises his orb and scepter. He looks down from the dais at the strange, handsome man, who is forced to look up slightly in order to see his face. Richard wears a high-collared robe with hanging sleeves made from heavy white silk interwoven with gold threads. A lighter fabric covered entirely with white harts embroidered in gold thread lines the inside of the sleeves at his sides, and his arms extend from them covered in shiny white silk. In the filtered light, he gleams, rather than sparkles, like a dream shimmering in front of them.

"No, let this wretch approach the throne. I would speak to the man who thinks he is my master."

Balem stops just at the base of the dais and looks up at Richard. Richard sees now that the man has freckles, like he does, and long, carefully groomed fingernails that lack all trace of varnish. He dares to look Richard directly in the eye, an indulgent look coming into them as he stares, and his lips curve into a condescending smile that throws Richard off guard. He feels defenseless with the orb and scepter in his hands, but he dares not move now.

Slowly, Balem mounts the dais until he stands in front of Richard. Aumerle and all the other nobles stifle a gasp and many hands find the handles of hidden daggers or even, of swords. He has not laid a single finger on Richard, and yet, he feels as trapped as if his hands and feet were bound to the throne. He gazes deeply into Richard's large brown eyes and smiles with so much civility that it looks like a threat.

"Ha!" He chuckles, so quietly that only Richard can hear him. Rage runs through him like a white hot poker that he wishes he could thrust into this impudent beast. But he remains imprisoned by his own regalia as Balem begins to circle him, examining him from head to toe, very slowly. He speaks when he has completed the circuit and is again facing Richard. He has to look up very slightly to meet his eyes, but Richard notices that he has an amused expression.

"Well done, human," he says softly, as if to a dog that has brought him his slippers. "I have not visited my planet since your species was shivering in caves beneath piles of fur. You have not come along as quickly as some, but you've done well, and regardless, it is of no consequence to me."

Richard seethes inwardly, and glances quickly around the room. Aumerle notices and approaches him, hands out, to receive the orb and scepter. His green eyes meet Balem's, then pass to the hooded figure who has remained on the floor, beneath the dais. Though partially hidden, Aumerle sees that his face is unnaturally pale and smooth, and something is wrong with it. The shock registers as a thud in his gut. 

"Who would have a leper for a servant," he wonders as he sets the regalia on the throne. He has a new concern for Richard that no sword can defend.

Newly liberated Richard takes a step back from Balem and his chest swells with air before he speaks.

"You speak to us with familiarity unbecoming the subject of an anointed king." Richard is grateful that he has been able to speak clearly, unwaveringly, and in his haughtiest tone. "You must bend your knee and recognize your master, or bear the consequences. I have weathered the likes of you before, and I will tolerate no further rebellion."

Balem laughs a rich, smooth laugh that resonates like silk against Richard's skin and tears at his pride like steel.

"Oh, you, _Richard_ , who call yourself a king." He takes a step forward and stands so close that Richard can feel his breath when he speaks. "I own you as thoroughly as I own all your kind on this planet."

His index finger traces the outline of the collar of Richard's robe.

"Such a lovely throat. I should have it uncovered."

His assistant moves as if summoned, but Balem lifts his hand and uses a flick of his fingers to gesture him back without even looking around. Richard longs to run from the beautiful, sinister creature before him, but stands taller, straighter, and does not dignify his indecent fingers with a glance. He feels himself collapsing under the burden of majesty and the weight of anticipation from all the noblemen in the room. He is not certain he can live up to his duty, and fears God has, in this moment, perhaps deserted him as He never did when he faced Wat Tyler.

"We will have private conference with Mr. Abrasax," Richard says authoritatively. Aumerle and a couple others scramble to prepare a smaller room off to the side to receive important visitors. Richard leads Balem, with Aumerle pressed to his side and hand on his dagger, and Balem's shadowy assistant trails far enough behind to be almost invisible.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richard bargains successfully with Balem, at great personal cost, and with a long-term result that neither one expects.

Balem pushes ahead when they enter the room and does not wait for an invitation to be seated on the cushion of a colorful chair next to a low table. Richard fumes but can do nothing as he watches the feathers flutter in his tunic while he settles himself. If he protests the lack of attention to rank, it will only highlight the fact that he has allowed the situation to slip through his fingers. 

"Mr. Night," he calls to his assistant, motioning to a flagon and cups on another table in the corner. "Bring me a cup of whatever that is. I'm thirsty, and our host here has not offered me refreshments." Mr. Night scurries to bring the drink and, as an afterthought, Balem calls to his back, "Oh, and bring some for the humans, too."

Richard moves with dignified steps toward a chair across the table from Balem, with Aumerle just behind. 

"Don't sit down," Balem speaks through lips moistened with their first taste of wine. "I want to look at you some more." His mouth stretches into something not quite pleasant enough to be called a smile. 

Richard does not sit down because he is shaking with rage and battling an urge to fling his crown right into his bared teeth. 

"You, Mr. Abrasax... Balem... do not know your place. I need only whistle to have men drag you away in chains and roasted alive for everyone to see. I have humored you, and now I will see that you learn your place. I will know your true purpose." 

He has kept a firm voice, but a thousand tiny razors course through his veins and his heart booms in his ears. He stands about an arm's length from Balem, who is looking at his flushed face and shaking hair with an expression he cannot read. Aumerle has moved closer and looks at their rude guest with unabashed hostility. He's about to speak when Mr. Night returns with two more cups. He has pushed his hood back, and Aumerle gasps at the strange, white hair, beady eyes, and smooth pale face that lacks a proper nose, and is thick and heavy on the forehead. Richard is just as shocked, but hides it better.

"My lord," Aumerle says urgently. "This man must be a leper. Please, stand back." He places one arm around Richard's waist and attempts to move him away, but he resists. He will not let this man use the threat of illness to intimidate him.

Balem laughs a rich, deep, laugh that sounds far more delighted than the situation warrants. 

"Mr. Night is not a leper. He's a splice."

Richard and Aumerle look at Mr. Night uncomprehendingly.

"Of course you wouldn't understand what that means. He's mostly human, if that's what matters to you." Balem rises, hands them their cups and motions toward some empty chairs. "Here, be seated now, and let me tell you about my big plans for you."

They sit and take grateful sips from their cups. 

"It is I who have been humoring you, because you are my property just as surely as that slave," he nods toward Aumerle, who seethes and starts up with raised fists, "belongs to you." 

Richard pulls Aumerle back down.

"He is my cousin, not my slave," says Richard.

"He's not?" Balem asks, deflating Aumerle and making him blush with a single sly glance.

"I am the property only of God. Certainly no man with a squire's haircut and feather shirt could own a king like me." 

"You'll excuse me for a moment while I appreciate the irony of this statement coming from a man with the long, loose hair of a maiden and hands so useless he can gild their nails." 

Richard snorts. 

"If we all had claws like yours we'd be no better than dogs." He wads a handkerchief into a ball and hands it to Aumerle. "Here, cousin, toss this and see if Balem will fetch it."

Balem seems delighted with this exchange, which only irritates Richard further. 

"I've been inspecting the harvest for a few weeks now and you are, by far, the most amusing human I've encountered." 

Richard glares at him, not wanting to speak for fear of losing what he feels is the upper hand.

"As I told you, I own you. I own Earth, and all the living things on it. The most valuable thing on Earth, of course, are humans, and I have come to inspect my crops and determine if they are ripe for a full harvest."

Richard starts to wonder if Balem might be a demon. Maybe he is the Devil himself! The name does sound similar to the names of demons, and he ransacks all the locations in his memory where the many names of Satan and his minions may have lodged during his religious education. He crosses himself automatically and sees Aumerle doing the same.

"I come from another planet, and my people have been raising humans to extract an essence we use in a sort of... medicine. Yes, think of it as a medicine, and humans are the crop that produces it. When the crop is ready, we will take all the humans and process them."

Richard can feel the blood run out of his cheeks and his heart skip a beat. He is not sure what Balem is saying, but understands it must mean killing all the people in the world. He looks blankly at Balem, jaw slack. Balem rises and stands behind Richard's chair. He caresses his cheek with one long finger, the end of his fingernail barely catching on Richard's skin toward the very end.

"Oh, don't worry, silly," he croons, stroking Richard's hair. "It doesn't hurt. We do it humanely. Sort of like...like.. the way your people slaughter pigs and turn them into sausage." He finishes with a reassuring little pat on Richard's shoulder. 

Richard flinches, twists away from his touch, and stands up to face the intruder toward whom he feels increasingly powerless to control. He is not sure he understands everything the man says, but it is clear he is a powerful person in his own realm, and his meaning is plain enough.

"You can't do that." 

He wants to threaten him again with execution, but can one really execute the Devil? Perhaps he should send for the archbishop. Perhaps he should pray. Or, what if he is really from another planet, as he says? Could it be that Adam and Eve were not the first people God made? For, Balem seems human enough, even if his servant is not. No, Balem is either a demon or a man, and he needs to figure out which.

"I can, and I will, when I am ready to," Balem says, pulling a small device from a pocket. "Watch."

He points it at the table, presses something, and the table disintegrates to dust in a flash of light. 

Richard and Aumerle leap back and instinctively hold onto each other for a moment before Richard quickly regains his composure. Balem steps into the pile and picks up a handful. He raises it before Richard's face and lets the wooden crumbs trickle from his fist. Richard is too astonished to speak.

"You know, you should feel honored that I enjoy you enough to share this with you," Balem says haughtily, brushing his hands together to remove the last bit of dust. "I've told no one else."

Richard feels his composure crack. The Devil and his demons do not need weapons to cause damage, and he becomes certain that Balem is some kind of man. A man with weapons more powerful than anything he can imagine and a servant who does not look very human at all. A man who might actually have the ability to slaughter people like cattle, who might actually be telling the truth.

"Please don't, Balem. Spare us."

Balem moves very close to Richard. 

"I like the pleading tone in your voice."

Richard hears Aumerle make a muffled, outraged sound behind him and wills him to remain silent. He keeps his head high, his bearing, regal, while his guts melt and his mind reels. He has never pleaded with anyone in his life, except God, when Anne was sick, and look what good it did. And yet, when he replays back his words in his mind and looks at himself from Balem's position, he knows that he is. He has no objective way of knowing, but his heart tells him that the fate of all people depends on him.

Balem runs an elegant hand lightly over the fabric of Richard's sleeve. Richard notices the rings on his fingers have gems in colors unlike any he has seen before, indeed, even heard of before, and the metal is neither silver, nor gold, but something even more lustrous and beautiful. 

"This garment pleases me. I want it." His hands move over Richard's chest and he begins to finger the buttons at his throat. Richard's hands fly up and stop Balem's. A slow, terrifying smile spreads across his mouth.

"I haven't decided yet about the harvest, you know. Mr. Night projects less profit than I had hoped for, and urges me to wait, but I am not patient." He starts to undo the first button, with difficulty, because Richard's hand hinders his movements. He whispers in Richard's ear, "A second opinion might convince me." 

Balem's hot breath tickles his ear, and his spicy, ethereal perfume wraps them both in a blanket of scent unlike any Richard has ever encountered. He feels dizzy and the fingers at his throat feel uncomfortably pleasant. Everything is off kilter, like he's stepped into someone else's skin, and he does not want Aumerle to see who he has become.

"Aumerle, I will speak with Balem alone now."

Aumerle's misery is obvious, and Balem chuckles as he leaves. 

"And your assistant?" Richard asks.

"Can stay. Mr. Night, please take a break."

Mr. Night takes something out of his pocket and pulls on a tab. It inflates into a pillow and he takes a seat on the floor in the corner, wedging the pillow between his head and the wall. Within seconds, he is snoring, as if this is some kind of routine they have.

"Ask not for my mercy, Richard, for I have none to give. I will spare your planet only if no long-term profit can be gained by immediate harvest, which is what Mr. Night argues, or if I simply change my mind because it pleases me. I am not entirely convinced yet by Mr. Night, and still find no pleasure in delaying your harvest."

He has shaken Richard's hands away while saying this, and is unbuttoning his robe. Richard stands still and wonders if the pounding of his heart is visible through his skin, for it feels as if it has wriggled free of its cage and writhes just beneath his skin. When it is open as far as the chest, Balem stops and trails his fingers down Richard's long, shapely neck. 

"Ah, there it is. You shouldn't cover up such a lovely throat." He puts his face close to it and sniffs, then, liking what he discovers, licks it once, from bottom to top, ending in the hollow of Richard's jaw.

"You're... You... Is my robe what you want? It is made with real gold. I will gladly give it to you to save Earth."

"Do you really think your garment is worth more than the value of the harvest?" His hand slides down Richard's torso and grabs his balls. Richard flinches and cries out softly, and Balem hisses in his face, "What kind of a fool do you take me for? If you want me to delay it, you'll need to find a way to make it please me to do so."

Richard has never felt more powerless, or more powerful. He holds the fate of all the people in the world in what offering of himself Balem will accept. This exotic mixture enflames him and makes him bold, wanton, even. He leans forward and kisses Balem full on the mouth, firmly, passionately, and without the slightest hesitation. Balem recoils in surprise at first, then yields until Richard withdraws his lips. 

"Six hundred twenty years," he whispers. "Wait for six hundred twenty years." It's a random number, but it's the first one that popped into his head.

Balem finishes unbuttoning Richard's robe and carefully sets it aside. He runs his fingertips through the hair on his chest and traces a small circle on his stomach before sliding one hand down into his hose and fondling his cock, which Richard feels begin to leap to life. He removes his hand and splays himself back down in the chair. 

He doesn't need to tell Richard to fall to his knees, but first he removes his crown. He can't bear to do what he is about to do, what some part of him even desires to do, with it on. Balem sets it back on his head. Richard feels the heat of embarrassment rush to the surface as the weight of his royal insignia returns to his head. He hopes it doesn't show but Balem makes a small, satisfied sound that tells him this is exactly the reaction Balem wants. 

"Just keep going," he thinks, opening Balem's pants. He wraps his mouth around his cock and works with his lips and tongue till it is fully hard. Balem twines Richard's hair around his fist and pulls his head up. 

"You didn't say please."

"Please."

"Please, who?"

"Please, Balem?"

He yanks Richard's hair. " _Lord_ Balem."

"Please, Lord Balem."

He pushes Richard's face back down on his cock, and lets him work on it, occasionally pulling his hair or pressing his face down more, until he comes violently, but quietly and more neatly than Richard had feared. He rolls off his knees and sits on the floor, resting his head against Balem's thigh while he wipes his mouth and gathers his wits. His own cock is twitching and, with no robe to cover his hose, it's very obvious to Balem, who reaches down to touch it over the fabric. 

"Oh, you poor thing," he mocks. "Should I leave you like this?" 

Richard longs to shout, "No! Let me finish, too!", but knows Balem wants to hear something else.

"Whatever you wish, Lord Balem."

The first genuinely happy smile Richard has seen cracks Balem's face. He continues to rub Richard over the fabric and in a surprisingly short time he can't hold on anymore and lets himself go. 

"Very well, Richard. I'll grant your wish. I won't harvest Earth for six hundred twenty years." He pats Richard's head and speaks in a bored voice, as if rewarding a favorite pet for performing a simple trick. He turns toward the corner. "Mr. Night!"

The rodent-like face pops up from its slumber and trots over to Balem. He motions to Richard's robe, which Mr. Night scoops up, and the two of them breeze out of the room, leaving Richard sitting, slightly dazed, on the floor, wavering between intense shame at his submission and pride to have the intoxicating power of his sexuality so magnificently confirmed. 

On the way out, Mr. Night pauses near the chair where Aumerle sits fretfully.

"Your master needs a new tunic before he leaves that room."  
**********************************  
Balem reclines on a sumptuous couch in a room lit only by the fiery orange clouds outside the glass walls, and gingerly touches the regenex patch on his mangled throat. He can feel more tissue filling the gaping hole than he did yesterday, but not more than he did last time he felt it two hours ago, or the hour before that. A nurse has recently injected more painkillers, and his head begins to loll with their effects. The drugs numb the wound left by the rogue lycantant's attack, but the regenerating tissues still feel like a million tiny pinpricks, as if they've been sitting for too long in an awkward position, and suddenly stand up. The doctors tell him that even after he no longer needs to deliver regenex with a patch because the hole is closed and he regains the use of his voice, this sensation will persist, and could persist for years. There's no telling how long it will take before his throat is like new again. 

He struggles to rise and sways across the room to a large mirror. He can't hide in his chambers forever. The longer his recovery, the more opportunities Kalique and Titus have to chip away at his enterprises, to negotiate better deals with his competitors, to deprive him of his inheritance. He touches the ugly white patch and watches as his fingers play on his throat. He needs something to disguise and protect it so he does not appear weak for too long, something impressive, as suits him, and dangerous, as everyone knows he is.

A faint memory tickles the back of his skull. A garment. A robe. Something glittering in gold, yes, that's it, he remembers, it's in his collection. He hurries down several hallways, servitants, advocates, assistants, accountants, guards bowing low or scampering aside in his wake, until he reaches the room where he keeps objects he's collected over the millennia. The hall is cavernous and dimly lit, each object displayed in climate-controlled glass cases and properly labeled, like a museum. He rarely visits it. The pleasure is all in the acquisition. Not all of the objects are beautiful or priceless, but they all have stories, and all are trophies.

He stops in front of a white robe, intershot with gold, that has a high collar and long, hanging sleeves. "Obtained under duress from King Richard II of England, on Earth, in the Earth year 1397."

"Ah, yes!" he recalls. "The pretty king who amused me enough to indulge by delaying harvest a few years."

He doesn't regret this decision. Mr. Night had been right, of course. Earth was worth fifty times more now than it was then. But he can be impulsive and might have done it anyway without Richard's persuasive... mouth. He taps a security code onto a panel and the case opens. He removes the robe and returns with it to his room. 

Aside from being too long and a bit tight in the shoulders, the robe fits, and he likes the look of the sleeves. He swirls around and finds that they add drama to the movement. But doesn't like the length and the collar only partially conceals his injury, which will not do at all.

He takes out an electronic tablet and begins sketching a shiny, black tunic with hanging sleeves and a very high, ornate metal collar that almost completely encircles and protects his throat.


End file.
